


Rain

by Dusk Peterson (duskpeterson)



Series: The Eternal Dungeon [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Farmboys, Guards, Lords, Master/Servant, Masters, Multi, Murderers, Original Fiction, Original Het, Original Slash, Pre-Slash, Prostitutes, Public Schoolboys, Servants, Soldiers, Trains, don't need to read other stories in the series, holiday gift fic, liegemen, original gen, thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2906642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/Dusk%20Peterson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ira had never beaten him, even though their pack-leader clearly found his constant suggestions to be annoying. That showed good sense."</p><p>Five boys. Five rainy days. Five opportunities for trouble.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>This mini-cycle of five stories is written as part of the <a href="http://duskpeterson.com/master/index.htm#table">50 Darkfics</a> challenge and as a 2014 holiday gift for my readers. <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/profile#w">Boilerplate warning for all my stories</a>.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beauty (The Eternal Dungeon)

_The Kingdom of Vovim, the year 330, the eleventh month. (The year 1871 Fallow by the Old Calendar.)_   
  

"Isn't the rain _beautiful?_ " 

Elisa stood under the thundercloud, her head tilted up, her hands raised toward the autumn sky, as though she were worshipping Mercy. The sun-speckled rain made her face shine, and droplets clung to her long hair like jewels. She was not a worshipper of Mercy; she was Mercy herself, at this moment of joy. 

"Pay attention to what I'm saying," Layle said, annoyed, as he scuffed his boot in the mud. There were far more important things to worry about than Elisa's prettiness, though he had become more and more aware of her lovely face during the past year, to the extent that he had contemplated asking Ira to make Elisa his thief-mate. But that would be giving too much information away. 

Layle never gave anything away. 

Now he said, "The rain doesn't matter. What matters is that we don't have enough money right now to pay for the food we need— Stop it!" He grabbed Elisa as she danced and whirled her way across the rain-slick water. She gave a little whimper at the hardness of his grip. He quickly released her, and then looked over at the other children to see whether they'd noticed. 

They hadn't. The older boys were crouched under the eave of the barn, consulting with the pack's leader, Isa, who was the biggest and strongest of them all. The rest of them – younger boys like Layle, and the girls, who had to follow the boys' lead – were huddled shivering under the partially stripped branches of the trees, trying to ignore the rain that trickled down their necks and soaked through their clothes. 

Except Elisa. She was singing now, a made-up tune of her own about the raindrops being sent by the gods to bring happiness to their people. 

"Ira will get mad at you if you wake up the farmer and his family," Layle warned her, which shut her up immediately. None of them wanted to get quick-tempered Ira mad. He was liberal in his beatings of any street-child who made a nuisance of themselves. 

Except Layle. Ira had never beaten Layle, even though their pack-leader clearly found Layle's constant suggestions to be annoying. That showed good sense. 

Layle tried again. "We should do it now, while the farmer and his family are still having their early afternoon nap. We could go into their storeroom, take whatever's there—" 

"Silly Layle, we're cutpurses, not burglars," said Elisa carelessly. "We steal what we need in order to keep from dying of hunger . . . and usually that's food, not money. Stop worrying your mind with all that and just look at the rain. _Look_ at it. It's all shiny and wet and makes everything beautiful." 

Layle sighed. He didn't know why he kept trying to get the other street-children to see things his way. They were all uninspired. They wanted to do things the way they'd always done things, and the way that the street-children before them had always done things. He tried once more to explain. "It's not fair, all those merchants having money, when we have none. We should take their money, and then _we_ could become merchants. We could charge high prices, the way they do, and get lots of wealth." And have fun laughing at the customers when they came back, complaining that their high-priced merchandise was shoddy. But Layle knew better than to voice that hope aloud to Elisa. Ira would have understood; he was worldly-wise. But he was lazy too; he didn't want to move out of set patterns. 

Elisa . . . Elisa was innocent and beautiful, like Mercy. Now she stepped into a puddle and stamped it, making water fly in all directions. "Look!" she exclaimed with delight. 

For a moment, Layle was tempted. It was a meeting-point of sorts. Elisa loved seeing the water flying through the air, and he liked the idea of destroying the puddle. They might have fun together. 

But at that moment, Ira laughed his lazy laugh, and Layle was angry again. Nothing ever went the way _he_ wanted. Things always went the way the other street-children wanted. 

"Play with the rain, then," he said, and shoved her into the puddle. 

She went down with a splash and with a hurt, shocked expression. No sound, though. She was a brave one, never complaining. Layle considered leaning over to help her up. 

But he could see tears in her eyes, running down her reddening cheeks, blending with the thundercloud's tears. She had mud on her now, cloaking her clammy cold and making her cry harder. 

Oh. So she was right. The rain _was_ beautiful. Just not in a way that she realized. 

He stood silently by her for a moment, watching her sob softly, as he contemplated hitherto unimagined pleasures. If he could make Ira cry that way . . . if he could make Elisa cry even harder . . . 

Then he shook his head and turned away. He couldn't afford to anger the other street-children that much. He was only ten years old. He still needed them. 

For a while. Then he could do things his way. 

And the real beauty would begin.


	2. Love (Life Prison)

_The Magisterial Republic of Mip, the year 358, the sixth month. (The year 1881 Barley by the Old Calendar.)_   
  

"Where's my dollies?" 

Merrick glanced up furtively from where he was arranging his present, but his sister's voice was far away, in her own room. His family was rich enough to own a large farmhouse, with rooms for all the children, as well as for his bachelor uncle, his spinster aunts, his mother's parents, and his father's widowed mother. The women were downstairs tending house, the men were at their chores, and the four older boys were at school. Only Merrick was at home; he had just turned six, so he would not attend school until the following term. 

And then there was his sister, a year older than him. She had complained of a headache, so she was allowed to stay home from school. She often complained of headaches, and then she played with her dolls afterwards. Nobody said anything when this happened. 

He sighed and went over to the window to listen to the rain fall into the gutters with a silver jingle. Any colder, and the rain would become snow, but now it was just a slush-rain that filled the farmyard and turned the ground into an icy mud. It was better inside: cozy from the fires that his aunts had built, and filled with smells from the mid-day meal being prepared below. Merrick sniffed the air appreciatively. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he would never live in a place without good-tasting food. 

The rain was hard to see against the dark sky. Despite the unusually cold weather, it wasn't winter. It was Liege-Love Day, in fact. Mippites didn't celebrate Liege-Love Day, since the holiday honored liege-masters and their liegemen, while most Mippites were staunch republicans, declaring all men equal. But Merrick's grandparents had come from the First District of the Queendom of Yclau, and though his family had adopted the customs of their Mippite neighbors, making do without liegemen, they still celebrated Liege-Love Day, turning it into a family celebration. 

His grandparents had given his parents gifts, and his parents had left little treats under the pillows of all the children. Except Merrick. They'd forgotten him for some reason. It didn't matter. The essence of Liege-Love Day was giving to others, so Merrick would celebrate the day by giving a present to his sister. He didn't particularly like her, but that was what Liege-Love Day was all about: giving without hope of return. 

Joyful now, he continued his work. There were no flowers at this time of year, but he had spent the past week painstakingly gathering complexly ridged pine cones, shiny golden hazelnuts, and other such beautiful items from the small patch of woods on their land. Arranged around his sister's favorite doll, they looked like an elegant cradle, carved by a master craftsman. The other dolls, sitting along the stone mantelpiece, looked on approvingly. 

There was only one task left to make the scene perfect. He spent a minute shining the metal until it was polished perfectly; then he carefully, lovingly inserted it. 

Everything was right now. It couldn't be better. 

He hesitated, wondering whether he should let his sister discover her gift by chance. Liege-Love presents were supposed to be given anonymously. But he hadn't dared set up his gift in his sister's room, where his preparations would have been interrupted, and his sister never bothered to come see him in his own room. He would have to lead her here. 

He found her in the churning room, complaining querulously to their grandmother that her dollies were missing. "Tut, tut, child, I'm sure you'll find them soon," said their grandmother absentmindedly, scarcely looking up from her work. All the adults in their family were like that: too absorbed in their work to pay much attention to the young ones. Laughing, his father had once said that, if it weren't for his switch, all the boys in the family would run wild. 

Merrick, who could have used a little less of the switch and a lot more attention, was looking forward to school. He had an important question he wanted to ask, though he wasn't sure that it was appropriate for a schoolteacher. Perhaps he could catch his father in between farming tasks, some day? 

Now he tugged at the ribbon in his sister's braid. "Come look at something." 

She turned to glare at him. "Did _you_ take my dollies?" 

It was hard to know how to answer that question without giving away the surprise. "Come look!" he insisted. "It's a present. For you." 

Looking suspicious, but lured by the magic word "present," she followed him up the narrow, creaking stairs to his room, which was located in a tiny cubbyhole next to the attic. Merrick didn't mind about the location. He was the youngest child, so of course he had the smallest room. As he grew larger, and his brothers married and moved to their own farmhouses, he'd get a larger room. In the meantime, his room was snug and warm and filled with good things to eat, whenever he sneaked a piece of pie or tart upstairs. He'd eat it while staring into the warm fireplace, listening to his brothers roughhouse in the yard, looking forward to the day when he was old enough to go to school and do heavy chores and be one of them. Be a _real_ member of the family. 

His sister hesitated on the threshold of his room, aware that something was different, but not sure wherein the difference lay. "What's that cloth doing on the floor? And what's that stick on top of it?" 

His sister was very nearsighted. Their parents kept forgetting to get her spectacles. Perhaps he should have saved his money and bought her spectacles – but no, this present was much better. 

"It's not a cloth; it's your favorite doll," he told her, pulling her forward. "And it's not a stick. See?" 

He knew the moment when she saw. She went all stiff, the way he did in moments of joy. He could imagine what would come next: his sister saying, "Oh, Merrick, how could you? I don't deserve such a fine present—" 

She screamed. 

"You horrible, nasty boy!" She boxed his ear, hard. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! I'm going to tell Father!" She ran out of the room, sobbing. 

His ear ringing painfully, Merrick stared down at his present, almost convinced that it had been replaced by something awful. But it was just the way he had arranged it: the woody cradle holding the baby, who had a lovely, shiny knife sticking into its chest. 

He wiped away a tear. He was too big to cry. He mustn't let her upset him. He channeled his tears into anger, the way grown men did. Then he looked around, seeking a victim for his anger. 

By the time his father arrived, three minutes later, Merrick had just finished stabbing the last of the dolls. His anger had drained away. There was nothing left except the short, sharp pleasure, every time he plunged the knife into a doll's chest. It was nowhere near as nice as the beautiful scene he'd created as a present. But it helped to take away the anger and shock and sorrow at how his sister had reacted to his carefully prepared present. 

It was odd how satisfying it was, to put the knife into the dolls. He thought again that this was probably not a question that schoolteachers were trained to answer. So when his father arrived, Merrick's first thought was to voice his long-contemplated question. "Father, why is it that when I stab, I feel so much—?" 

His father paid no attention to him. He took a hard grip on Merrick, hauling him to his feet, pushing him out of the room, pulling him down the steps. They passed his sister, who was sobbing – in her usual melodramatic manner – onto the shoulder of their kneeling mother. Merrick's mother glared at Merrick, which made him feel uneasy. 

Merrick's father only went as far as the yard. Then he flung Merrick against the rail fence there and pulled down Merrick's trousers. The older boys had just arrived home from school for mid-meal; the eldest of them, alert, ran to the barn and fetched their father's switch. The other boys stopped playing to watch the punishment with interest. 

The beating was longer than any of the ones Merrick had received in the past. He tried very hard not to cry, but he couldn't help it. He could hear that his brothers weren't at all impressed with his performance; they made snide remarks and finally wandered away toward the end. 

So when it was all through, there was only Merrick and his father left in the rain-frozen yard. Not forgetting the most important thing in all this, Merrick tried again, through his sobs, to ask the question: "Father, I don't understand why I enjoy so much—" 

But his father still wasn't paying attention. "Take this back to its place in the barn," his father said, thrusting the switch into his hand. "And stay to muck out the stalls. You have all your brothers' chores to do for the next week. Let that be a lesson to you." He turned and stomped back into the warm house. 

Merrick stared after him, coatless and shivering. It was clear that he had done something terribly wrong. He just didn't know what he had done that was wrong. Perhaps he should have asked his sister before he stabbed her favorite doll. Maybe she wanted to reserve the fun of stabbing for herself? 

It was growing so cold that he was beginning to shake hard all over. He heard the sound of his family gathering at the table. No mid-day meal for him, then: no crusty-brown fowl, no creamed corn, no apple pie. His lengthy chores awaited him. 

He listened to the sound of his family cheerfully chatting at the table and was struck by a revelation: Going to school would make no difference. Doing heavy chores would make no difference. He wasn't one of them. He never would be. He was different. 

He just wished he knew why. 

He turned and trudged heavily toward the barn. He'd learned a lesson today, but he didn't think it was the lesson his father had meant to teach him. 

He wouldn't tell his family, the next time he stabbed someone.


	3. Hope (Life Prison / Commando)

_The international border, the year 378, the fifth month. (The year 1887 Fallow by the Old Calendar.)_

Before he did anything else, Starke shoved aside one of the leather sofas, moved the plush armchair so that it served as a partial shield, and then, first glancing out the window to be sure nobody was within sight, he took the mirror he had wrenched from the wall – the elegantly gilded mirror that he had wrenched from the mahogany wall – and placed it against the wall opposite him, tilting it so that he could see anyone approaching outside from the opposite direction. The gilded mirror touched a poster on the wall of the smoking room: "The safest, fastest, finest trains in the world are the Royal Blue Line." 

He took a moment to light his cigarette. This was the smoking room, after all. Then, as his eye caught a movement in the mirror, he whipped around, steadied his gun on the windowsill, and shot in the face one of the Eighth Landstead soldiers who had been about to invade the train. 

The man went down with a terrible, garbled scream, his face a shattered pit. Starke waited only long enough to be certain that the soldier would not rise again; then he withdrew to the safety of his corner. His back was against the wall closest to the front of the train, the direction in which the soldiers were coming. Bullets were unlikely to penetrate the thick siding of the train. From where he crouched, he could see the invaders approaching through their reflections in the mirror, but they could not see him or easily shoot him. He was as safe as any man could be in this situation. 

He raised his cigarette to his lips. His hand was trembling. He tried to tell himself that it was only because he and the others on the train were badly outnumbered. He could hear the continued screams of the man he had shot. 

There were shots on the other side of the train now, coming from the Landsteader stationed there. A Ninth Landsteader, fortunately; if the Eighth Landstead had planted its invading army on the train, Starke and the others would have been in an even more hopeless position than they currently faced. After all, how could anyone have expected a train full of women and children on a touring holiday to come under attack during peacetime? 

"Got him!" said the Ninth Landsteader in a triumphant manner after he let off a shot. Starke envied him his cool. No doubt the Ninth Landsteader had more experience in such matters; the Dozen Landsteads were forever battling each other over small differences of opinion. 

But why should Landsteaders attack a train filled with Mippites? 

"They probably thought you were all Ninth Landsteaders," his companion in arms replied; from where Starke crouched, he could not see the other young man, but he could envision him carefully aiming to shoot the Eighth Landsteaders who continued to try to board the train, and who occasionally sent bullets toward the train. Several of the bullets pinged as they ricocheted off the scrolled metalwork that decorated the steps leading onto the car, but so far, none of the Eighth Landsteaders' bullets had met their actual mark. "After all, we're at the international border; this train is headed toward Balmer, in the Ninth Landstead. So it's reasonable to infer that you're either Ninth Landsteaders or friends of folks in the Ninth, which is just as bad, from the viewpoint of an Eighth Landsteader. Why wouldn't you be a Ninth Landsteader or an ally, if you were headed there?" 

"Only to change trains before we return to Mip," Starke protested. The Royal Blue Line travelled through the Magisterial Republic of Mip on its way from New Columbia to Balmer, but the train tracks didn't pass through Ellicott City in the Seat of Howard, Mip's easternmost seat; to reach Ellicott City, their party would have to switch onto another train line at Balmer. Ellicott City was where Starke's elder brother lived, along with the group he had brought with him on this trip: the Women's Temple Society, their children, and the temple priest. All of them were in the back of the train now, hiding under the cloth-covered tables in the beautiful dining car, with its polished hardwood chairs. They'd all been feasting on terrapin soup and canvasback when the attack occurred. 

Nobody was in the dining car to protect them except Starke's brother and the Keeper of Compassion Prison, who had accepted the invitation of Starke's brother to accompany them on this trip. Neither man was armed. Neither man was happy about that, but at least they'd had sense enough not to suggest that they strip Starke of his old army revolver. He was a better shot than they were. 

He took four more shots out the window – three of them hit their marks – and then used the ensuing pause to try to refill the Peacemaker revolver. His hands were not only badly shaking now; they were also slippery from sweat. The train's gas lamps and steam heater had ceased to function, but he felt hotter than the warmth of the spring day could account for. He needed to keep his hands steady and dry if he and the other youths were to have any hope of fighting off this attack. 

Not that there was really any hope. The odds were too poorly stacked against them, and had been, from the moment they lost two-thirds of their armed men. 

The attack had been well planned, Starke was willing to admit as he poured powder into his gun – smokeless powder, for the Mippite army used the latest technology. If their train had been travelling over any other stone bridge in the world, they might not have seen in time the obstruction on the tracks, aimed at derailing the train and plunging it into the waters below. 

But this was the Thomas Viaduct. It was the largest bridge in the Midcoast nations – in the entire New World, in fact. With arches sixty feet high over the Patapsco River, the bridge was six hundred feet long . . . and curved. 

The curve was what had saved them – that, plus the fact that the Flood of '68 had stripped away trees from the bank. The curve shortened the sight-line between the banks; the lack of trees allowed the engineer to see easily across the banks to the upcoming tracks. Thanks to both factors, the engineer had realized well ahead of time that a pile of lumber obstructed the line. He had shouted the news back to his passengers. His passengers had been far away in the dining car – all except the Keeper's son, who broke the four-minute mile in racing to the back of the train to inform the brakeman. 

The brakeman, Starke thought as he wiped sweat off his forehead with his shirt-sleeve, had proved the most heroic man of all. Despite the imminent danger, he had raced along the top of the train, braking each car as he went, and then – oh, so intelligent a man – he had leapt down and unlocked the foremost parlor car from the coal car ahead of it, no mean feat when the train was speeding over a bridge. 

The passenger cars had ground to a halt in time. The locomotive and coal car had not. They had derailed. The last that Starke had seen of the brakeman, the man had been standing on the bumper of the coal car, white-faced, saluting the male passengers who had raced to the front of the train. 

A glorious way to die. Starke assumed they were all dead: the brakeman, engineer, fireman, conductor, and flagman. The guns they had carried to protect them against train robbers were gone too. The locomotive and coal car lay crushed in the Patapsco River, giving off faint steams of protest. 

Leaving behind thirty-eight women, one hundred and twelve children, a harmless priest, two unarmed men, and three armed youths to defend them all against the dozens of Eighth Landstead soldiers who were attacking the train. 

"Fairview, watch out!" The Ninth Landsteader's voice was sharp; then, in a more casual manner, "Starke, three of them got under the train. Keep watch, and aim low." 

Cursing under his breath, Starke moved out of his well-protected position and tried to look out the window, leaning forward far enough that he could see the Ninth Landstead seal painted on the side of the parlor car. Bullets whizzed past his head. He had no choice but to ignore the shooting. If the soldiers under the train crawled back far enough to attack the dining car . . . 

But they did not. They had evidently been cocksure that this side of the train was undefended, for they scrambled out from under the train, grinning. Starke waited until they had fully emerged, smiling; then he killed them all. 

This time, as he withdrew into the safety of his corner, he could no longer ignore the shaking of his body. "Tom," he said, his voice sounding strangled, "I don't think much of your namesake bridge." 

There was no reply. He had to turn his head to assure himself that young Tom was still there. The boy had sneaked back, of course; Tom was supposed to stay with the other children, being only thirteen. But Tom was too much like his father to want to keep away from the action. And since his father had not come to fetch him back, Starke guessed that Compassion's Keeper implicitly approved of Tom's boldness. 

Now Tom said, very quietly, "Would you like me to load your gun for you?" 

It was the first thing he had said since conveying the warning to the brakeman. Tom was proving to be an admirable battle companion, young though he was: on hand to help, but not getting in the way if you didn't need him. He had not even asked to take a turn with the gun, though any boy with his shooting skills might well have thought that he had the right to demand this. 

If nothing else happened, Starke had to protect Tom. He'd received no special orders from Compassion's Keeper – other than, "No prisoners; shoot every damn one of them" – but he knew, without being told, that Tom was his special charge. Tom had been under Starke's protection for a year now, ever since the boy's father became Compassion's Keeper and moved his family into the outbuildings surrounding the prison. 

A year in which Tom's relations with his father had markedly deteriorated. Seeing Compassion's Keeper at work could do that. Starke ignored Tom's offer, forcing himself to hold his hands steady enough to eject each spent casing and reload each chamber. He'd be out of rounds by now, if it hadn't been for the two Ninth Landsteader lads; newly anointed to their landstead's military, they were, and they had come supplied with their own Peacemakers and ammunition. 

On their way back from a touring visit to Yclau? 

"I don't trust station agents." The Ninth Landsteader posted at the window opposite the smoking room paused to send a few bullets cracking forward before adding, "If an agent assures me that his train is the 'safest, fastest, finest' in the world, I'm going to assume that, at some point in the journey, I'll be delayed for several hours and find myself in danger. . . . The terrapin was tasty; I'll grant that." He shot his revolver again before saying, "Fairview, they're sending three triple our way. Can you can take a third of them?" 

His voice was casual. Starke's admiration grew. If only he could sound as unconcerned as the Ninth Landsteader – if only he could _be_ as unconcerned. His brother had shown no sign of fear when the attack started. Neither had Compassion's Keeper, though he had looked so furious that Starke had experienced a momentary stab of pity for the invaders, a pity that had lasted only long enough for him to realize their own helpless position. 

"But there are women and children here – we shouted that news to them at the start," he protested to the Ninth Landsteader as the other youth's companion – friend or love-mate, Starke wasn't quite sure – competently picked off most of the latest invaders from his dangerous post at the vestibule window, facing toward the Dozen Landsteads' side of the border. Fortunately, the Eighth Landsteaders hadn't thought to position men at the Mippite end of the bridge. Why should they? The soldiers' position was unexpected enough: they'd hidden inside the turreted hotel next to the upcoming end of the bridge. 

Starke had glimpsed the train hotel briefly: it was refined, with a garden, winding walkways, and a fountain. It was a _Ninth Landstead_ hotel. 

"Hmm, yes." The Ninth Landsteader sounded contemplative. "They might spare the children. If they're in a good mood." 

No way to know whether this was mere slander or actual reporting of vicious precedent. Landsteaders never had anything good to say about the inhabitants of adjoining landsteads; it was a wonder that nation hadn't torn itself apart long ago through its periodic civil wars. 

Starke glanced at the mirror again. It was angled in such a manner that he could see the boats docked next to the hotel. Eighth Landstead boats, he assumed. The Landsteaders, all of them, were fine sailors, living as they did next to the largest bay in the Midcoast nations. Starke supposed that, if he were a sailor, he would have anticipated the Eighth Landstead's clever move: to invade, not by land, but by sailing their boats up the Patapsco River, which divided the Eighth and Ninth Landsteads . . . sailing those boats beyond the boundary of their two landsteads, beyond the point at which the Ninth Landsteaders might reasonably expect to be invaded. 

Sailing right onto the border between the Ninth Landstead and a separate nation, the Magisterial Republic of Mip. 

At least the soldiers hadn't planted themselves on the Mippite side of the border. Though what the magisterial seats of Mip would say when they learned of this unprovoked attack on the people of their nation, Starke couldn't imagine. He hoped he'd still be alive to find out. 

There was a light nudge at his elbow. He looked down and saw that it was Tom, crawling on the floor so as to remain hidden. He had a cup of water in his hand. Starke had ordered him earlier to stay locked away in the water closet that adjoined the men's smoking room in the parlor car closest to the front of the train, but he hadn't protested when Tom had edged out of that room in order to watch Starke shooting. As long as Tom remained crouched behind the sofa, he'd be in no greater danger than he was in the water closet. The water closet had a window. This entire bloody train had windows, beautiful windows with frosted, etched glass. Beautiful windows for the invaders to smash and enter through if Starke and the Ninth Landsteaders let them approach that close. 

There was a high-pitched shout from the vestibule, quickly cut off, but the Ninth Landsteader protecting the window opposite the smoking room said urgently, "Starke, hold them back. I'm going forward." 

Tom had scrambled back to safety, without need of instruction. Letting fall the water that Tom had handed him – a pity, he could have used moisture in his dry mouth at this moment – Starke stuck his body out the window and proceeded to shoot anything that moved. No time to worry about whether any of the approaching men held white flags; if Fairview had been shot down, and his companion was not yet in position to take his place, Starke was the only defender left. 

The Eighth Landstead soldiers went down like pins under a bowling ball. Some screamed, some clutched their chests as redness stained their shirts, some sobbed and called for their mothers. Over and over and over he shot, fanning the hammer in a manner that would have made his old army sergeant wince, until he realized that he was clicking an empty gun; he only had five bullets in his gun, and he had shot them all. 

He pulled himself back in, gasping at what he had done and seen, and found that Tom was there again, with the extra bullets and powder ready at hand; Tom took the revolver from Starke and competently refilled the gun in record time. 

Starke wasted no words of reproof or thanks; he returned to his post of protection, only to find that the other soldiers, alarmed to see five of their companions gunned down in the space of bare seconds, were warily backing up. Then came a sixth shot, from the front of the train, and two more shots from the opposite side of the train, and the soldiers scattered and ran. 

"He's all right," said the Ninth Landsteader when Starke shouted the question. "Bullet skimmed his shoulder. I've bandaged him up, after a fashion; he's on his feet again." 

He sounded somewhat less blithe than before, which was hardly surprising, but he still exhibited no signs of fear. Oh, that Starke had his constitution. Starke glanced at Tom, wondering whether the boy would take alarm, but the Keeper's son was concentrating on his task; he had brought out the last of the ammunition from the box beside Starke and was carefully dividing it and the powder into portions that could be easily reloaded when need came. 

Seeing what was left of the ammunition, Starke's stomach clenched. Did they have so little armory left to them? He didn't dare ask the Ninth Landsteaders whether matters were as bad on their end. 

Hopeless. Helpless. And yet he had to do what he could, till the very end. 

He was suddenly, acutely conscious that he might be dead within a small space of time. And so might the boy he had been charged to protect. When Tom looked up, Starke forced himself to smile. "Thanks," he said. "You've done everything you can here. Now go back to the dining car." He saw the hurt pride in Tom's expression and added, "Your father and my brother might need your help there, if any of the soldiers make it back that far." 

There was a moment of hesitation, and then stubbornness – a stubbornness that made him look oh so much like his father – entered young Tom's expression. "The danger lies here. I'll help you, to the end." 

No illusions there as to what the end was likely to be. Starke gave Tom the only tribute he could for the boy's manly courage: he nodded. Tom, having finished serving as orderly to Starke, withdrew to the safety of the sofa. 

Starke picked up his cigarette, which he had abandoned earlier in one of the spittoons. He took a long draw from it, watching the mirror. A light rain was beginning outside. He wondered whether it would dampen the invaders' powder. He didn't really expect that it would. 

He hoped Tom would live – surely it would be a stone-hearted soldier who killed a young boy. Starke supposed that, if he wished, he could reveal information to the soldiers that might spare his own life as well. But no: he wouldn't turn back from the course he had set himself on, two years before, when he left home to become a soldier. One year in the army – a peacetime army, but he had threatened a few street-brawlers into submission before they broke any windows and destroyed the shops of hard-working merchants. One year as a prison guard, helping keep under lock some of the most dangerous murderers and rapists in the republic. One hour spent killing men for the first time in his life, in defense of women and children. If he were to die now, at least he could say that he'd accomplished something with his life. If he took the coward's way out, then he would live the rest of his life knowing himself to be a frightened boy, rather than the man he had aspired to be. 

He stubbed out the cigarette, barely aware that the shaking of his hands had stopped. Then he saw something that made him stiffen. Not in the mirror – what he saw was coming from the other end of the train. 

From Tom's soft gasp, Starke gathered that the boy had seen the men approaching too. Starke met Tom's eyes. "Tell the others," he instructed softly, and Tom scurried off to whisper the news to the Ninth Landsteaders. Starke took a harder grip on his revolver. If this didn't work . . . 

They went by the window, neither of them paying him heed: Compassion's Keeper, holding a white dining towel above his head, while behind him, his chin high, strode Starke's elder brother, looking as fearless as ever. The Keeper looked merely grim; Starke could guess that this peacekeeping mission did not suit the man's natural inclinations. But the Keeper was a practical man, as well as a vicious one. He could see well enough, without need for tale from Starke, that the odds were against them. Their only hope lay in surrender, and in prayer for mercy. 

If the Eighth Landsteaders were at all inclined to give mercy, after seeing so many of their fellows gunned down. Starke laid aside his revolver. No point in preparing for the worst. If the Eighth Landsteaders refused the white flag, everyone in the train was dead. 

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Tomorrow was his birthday. That was the ostensible reason that his brother had invited him on this tour of New Columbia, the former capital of Yclau, which remained filled with beautiful white-marble buildings and some first-class touring spots. Starke had enjoyed the visit, despite his brother's presence; he had enjoyed watching Tom excitedly examine the alligators in the zoological park, the dioramas of Ammippian warriors at the Royal Museum, and the small-arms exhibit at the Arts & Industries Museum. Yes, it was a fine way to end his life. 

It was simply too soon. 

Tom returned to Starke's side. This time he huddled up against Starke. He'd had an unspoken crush toward Starke for the past year. Starke, who sometimes could imagine Tom as his own younger brother, had no similar passion for the boy, but he put his left arm around the lad. Better that they should die this way, with Tom believing that Starke had the power to protect him. Better that Tom not have his illusions stripped about Starke. 

With his eyes closed, and Tom warm beside him, Starke fell asleep. 

o—o—o

When he awoke, his brother was standing over him, grinning. 

"A fine guard you are," he said. "I might as well have set our little cousin Beda to watch over Tom." 

The remark stung, as his brother had intended it to. Starke didn't move from his place; Tom was still under his arm, blinking sleepy-eyed. He'd evidently been asleep too, both of them lulled out of wakefulness by the warm spring air and the momentary pause in danger. 

The warmth had dissipated; a breeze scurried through the smoking room, carrying rain with it. Starke said, "They accepted the white flag, then?" 

"Accepted it, and apologized for their mistake. They're retrieving their wounded and dead now and withdrawing on their boats. Your father is a very clever man," he told Tom. "It wouldn't have occurred to me to tell the Eighth Landsteaders that I was Prescott Starke." 

"You're the _Duke_?" It was the Ninth Landsteader, standing in the doorway of the smoking room, with his companion Fairview beside him. "Sir, with all due respect, why the bloody blades didn't you say so from the start? We could have had this battle over with in seconds!" 

Starke must have looked as bewildered as Tom did. The Duke of Howard – Starke's brother, the traditional liege-lord of the Seat of Howard – grinned at them. "Landsteaders," he said in a tone of amusement. "I should have remembered that they were so taken with titles. Rook, you do understand that my title has no legal standing in Mip?" he said to the Ninth Landsteader. "Mine is merely a courtesy title. The Magisterial Republic of Mip abolished all aristocratic titles at the time that our nation broke away from the Queendom of Yclau, twenty-three years ago." 

Starke could see the Ninth Landsteaders doing the math in their head – Landsteaders still followed the old ternary system of numbering, abandoned long ago by other Midcoast nations. He released Tom and rose to his feet, saying, "Twenty-three sun-cycles ago. Seven and two-thirds tri-years. My lord, you may have a legally empty title, but many Mippite families remain in allegiance to you. I imagine that makes a difference to the Eighth Landsteaders." 

"Indeed." It was Compassion's Keeper, leaning his forearms against the windowsill from where he stood outside; the white flag was now tucked into the breast pocket of his uniform jacket, which was soaked from the rain. "I had only to say the magic words 'Duke of Howard,' and their lieutenant turned as white as bones. Mumbled something about not meaning to attack a High Master." 

"I did tell him I'm not a High Master," Starke's brother said, looking mildly embarrassed. 

"With respect, sir, as Duke of a seat, you're as highly ranked in the Yclau aristocracy as the High Masters of our landsteads are." It was Fairview, speaking for the first time. He had a bandage on his shoulder that was too red for Starke's liking, and his face was correspondingly pale, but his voice was firm with certainty. "A lieutenant in any landstead military who led an attack against a High Master could expect nothing less than death. Does that hotel station have a telegraph, man?" He turned his attention to Compassion's Keeper. 

"No retribution," said Starke's brother quickly. He did have his moments of honor. "The Eighth Landstead has suffered enough for its folly; there are corpses littering the train track. By all means, warn your military, in case the Eighth Landsteaders should take another opportunity to attack your landstead, but there's no need to turn the tables on your neighboring landstead." 

The Ninth Landsteaders murmured something noncommittal. Starke sighed. Another civil war begun, then. He hated the thought that he had played a role in sparking the war. 

Tom said, in a clear, steady voice, "You ought not to call him 'man.' My father is of noble blood, too. He's the Baron of Ammippian Springs." 

Tom was unexpected that way: coming to his father's defense on the very day on which he and his father had been squabbling over his father's treatment of prisoners. Compassion's Keeper winced, but not, Starke could guess, because he felt he didn't deserve his son's defense. That line of the aristocracy was lost beyond repair, since Tom's grandfather had gone too far in his ill treatment of his tenants, shortly before he had been forced by debts to sell his land to his tenants. Not a single former tenant in Ammippian Springs felt they owed loyalty to Tom's family. 

Starke's brother, who knew all this, stepped in smoothly. "Enough talk of titles. I'm Mippite enough to consider you my companions in arms – that ought to be all we're thinking of now. Thank you, gentlemen, for your valiant defense of the women and children. I hope you will join us at the hotel for lunch, once we have searched for any survivors in the locomotive, have wired news to the Balmer trainmen of this tragedy, and have released the hotel staff and guests, who were locked in the hotel's ballroom during this episode." 

"I'll see to the women and children in this train and will send the hotel staff to search the locomotive," said Compassion's Keeper. He waited minutely for the Duke's nod of approval before departing. Mippites they might all be, members of a nation that prided itself on its egalitarian system of justice, but both families were united in their willingness to acknowledge the courtesies due to their aristocratic betters. The Duke had sorrowfully regretted that the Queen of Yclau no longer lived in New Columbia, so he could not dip his knee to her in courtesy. 

"Thanks," Starke added quickly to the Ninth Landsteaders, before they should begin to trace lineages in their heads and figure out who the other aristocrat in this car was. "I expect you'll want to check the hotel to see whether they have a healer there who can care for Fairview's wound. I'll see you at lunch, then?" From the look in his brother's eye, Starke knew that more was coming. He didn't want anyone else around when the explosion occurred. 

Tom lingered after the Landsteaders' departure, though, pretending that he was gathering up ammunition from the floor. The Duke of Howard, after glancing his way, took no notice of the young boy. That was a mistake, as Starke could have told him. 

The Duke gave him no chance, though. "Here," Starke's brother said in a casual manner. "A birthday present for you. You certainly deserve it, after that fine shooting today." 

Starke had never been quite able to determine whether the candies that his brother used to disguise the poison were intended as genuine gifts. He took the revolver anyway. It was far better than his army revolver. He could probably sell it, for a goodly amount. 

"Oh, how beautiful." Tom was at his elbow again, gazing admiringly at the firearm. "But sir, you've counted his years wrong. You're supposed to give him his weapon of manhood when he turns journeyman-aged. That was last year; he's turning eighteen tomorrow." 

It was a consolation – a small consolation – to see his brother turn red in the face. The Duke's poisonings were always intended to be private affairs. He would insert poison into his relationship with Starke, and then enjoy watching his brother writhe. He never intended anyone else to witness his small vindictive acts – or at least, not to realize their significance. 

Tom was looking expectantly up at the Duke. At any moment now, he'd realize the truth. Starke had as much reason as his brother did for not wanting the truth to be discovered. He said quickly, "I was in the army a year ago. My brother didn't have the chance to give me my journeyman's weapon then." 

"That's right." His brother had recovered his composure. "You dashed off from home in such a hurry; it took a while for us to find you." 

"He ran away from home?" Again, Tom was quick off the mark. 

Starke gave his brother a level look. The Duke coughed and retreated, evidently realizing that any small attacks he made on Starke here would be recognized as such by the Keeper's son. "Well, I must go," said the Duke. "Brother of mine, I trust you'll accept this gift in the spirit in which it was intended." 

Indeed he would. "Thank you, my lord." 

The Duke looked annoyed. "I'm your brother. You know I hate it when you act all formal toward me." 

Of course he did. That was why he acted that way. But his brother was indeed his liege-lord, so Starke merely bobbed his head in a manner that might be regarded as repentance, obedience, or simple acknowledgment of the Duke's annoyance. The Duke gave a snort – Starke would have sworn that it was an admiring snort at the younger brother's parry – and left the train. 

Now there was only Tom left. He was quiet. Far too quiet. Starke didn't want him adding up numbers in his head, like the Landsteaders. Starke had proved himself a man today; what did it matter if he'd become a soldier and a prison guard a year before he was legally permitted to? 

His brother wouldn't tell anyone that Starke was about to turn seventeen; he wasn't that vindictive. The Duke would confine himself to little threats, at discreet intervals, always with the aim of acquiring something from Starke. No doubt Starke would learn in due time what the latest threat was aimed toward. 

He sighed, staring out at the grey rain. Nothing had changed today, really. He had his brother's enmity. He worked for a Keeper who did not deserve his high office. He was able to keep other men's respect only by hiding the fact that, until tomorrow, he would not be a journeyman. He was a boy like Tom, fighting his way free of his brother's guardianship in the best manner that he could. 

"Would you like me to carry your ammunition, sir?" 

It was Tom's quiet voice. Starke looked down at him. Tom's gaze was steady, as it always was in the moments when he knew what he was doing. Whether or not he had guessed at the exact nature of the confrontation between Starke and his brother, Tom knew that Starke was unhappy, and he offered the birthday gift best suited for the occasion. 

He called Starke "sir." He had never done that before. 

It came to Starke then that, while Compassion's Keeper no longer had an aristocratic title to hand down, he did have a civil title he could give to his son – and would, if Starke read the signs right. Some day, this thirteen-year-old boy would be Compassion's Keeper. Some day, Starke would take orders from young Tom. 

Perhaps, Starke thought as he knelt down to help Tom gather up the ammunition, there was hope for the future after all.


	4. Happiness (Michael's House)

_The Kingdom of Vovim, the year 439, the fourth month. (The year 1908 Barley by the Old Calendar.)_  
  

"Rain always made me happy." 

Michael heard the words distantly, as though they were some faraway call of Mercy's messenger. The rain beat down on the streets of Theater Avenue, sending the theater players and whores and patrons all scattering for shelter. Only a few ladies and gentlemen – equipped with umbrellas, and above noticing such inconveniences as bad weather – continued to stroll the avenue, pausing now and then to examine billboard notices of upcoming plays or temple services. 

Trotting beside Michael, Hasan said, "I mean, when I was At Home." 

All the other boys at Outram's House said it the same way: "At Home," as though speaking of a longed-for nation. Michael wondered sometimes whether his parents' home had been like that. He supposed he would never know. 

"Michael?" Hasan's voice was hesitant. 

Michael grunted. Hasan only needed small grunts to assure him that Michael was still listening. Hasan was the chattiest boy in Outram's House, which earned him tips from some of the patrons, and backhands across the mouth from other patrons. Hasan was learning to be selectively chatty. 

Reassured of his listener, Hasan said, "When I was five, my uncle won a bit of money on a race, and he took all of us on an outing to the country. There was a river there. It wasn't a river like this one." He pointed over his shoulder toward the stinking city river at the foot of the avenue. "It was laughing. That was what it sounded like when the rain fell on it. And it was bubbling over its banks, and I met another boy who shared his boat with me, and we took turns sailing it down-river to each other. That was a happy day. So I was always happy after that, when it rained." 

_Until I came to Outram's,_ was the unspoken refrain of the memory. Michael paused near the entrance to the park that divided the disreputable Theater Avenue from the high-class Parkside district. There was a gate there, meant to keep out the likes of him and Hasan, but nobody was guarding it at the moment; the park-keeper had taken shelter from the rain in the gazebo, where he was deep in conversation with a young woman. She, being respectable, was looking over her shoulder somewhat desperately for her lost escort. The park-keeper responded by laying a hand on her shoulder. Michael supposed the park-keeper had deluded himself into thinking he was being avuncular. 

A few of Michael's patrons were like that. He tolerated it just as long as it took to squeeze large tips out of them; then he stripped their delusions from them. 

Hasan was holding back. "Michael, I don't think we're allowed in here." 

"We're not allowed out of Outram's without his permission either," responded Michael. "That didn't stop you from sneaking out with me." 

Hasan bit his lip, looking as though he was trying not to cry. Michael glanced over at him, mildly curious. Hasan cried a lot, at odd moments. It was a mystery that Michael would have to pursue some day. 

"Come on," he said, and didn't look back to see whether Hasan was following. It didn't really matter. He would have slipped out of the House on his own, as he always did, if Hasan hadn't begged to accompany him. Hasan wasn't an annoyance, not really. He sometimes tended Michael's wounds after Michael had been with Outram, which helped. 

Michael paused to stare at the park's water fountain, overflowing from the rain. He tried to hear the laughter that Hasan had heard from the river. He couldn't hear it. Maybe country water was different from city water? From what little he remembered of his parents, he thought they came from the city, not the country. So he had never seen laughing water, which was why he had no memory of it. That would account for it. 

"Does rain make you happy?" Hasan stood arm-against-arm with him, which created a little warmth. Michael liked that about him. Hasan was always finding small ways to make Michael comfortable. Michael wasn't sure why. 

"Happy?" He considered the question as the rain trickled down his face, causing a stinging feeling on his cut mouth, Outram's latest gift to him. Hasan had used the word "happy" before, and Michael, in a rare moment of idle curiosity, had tried to figure out what the other boy meant. As far as he could tell, "happy" meant "better than the alternative." Being with a patron was better than being with Outram, because Michael knew how to stop the patrons from hitting him. He supposed that meant he was happy with the patrons. "Sometimes." 

Hasan nodded, satisfied. Then he tensed. Michael heard it at the same moment that Hasan did: the young woman's voice pitched high to say, "Oh, how disgusting, that boys like them should come _here_." 

"Michael," Hasan whispered as he tugged at Michael's cloak. "Michael, I think we should go." 

Hasan was right. The park-keeper, frowning, was storming down the steps of the gazebo. Abandoning the semblance of dignity that he tried at all times to maintain, Michael grabbed Hasan's hand, and they ran. 

They didn't stop running until they'd reached the back door of Outram's House. As Hasan panted, leaning over and placing his palms against his knees as he tried to catch his breath, Michael cocked his head, listening to grunting in the window above them. All was well; Outram hadn't noticed they were gone. 

"Outram is with another boy," Michael said. "You can get back to your room without him noticing." 

"But aren't you coming inside?" asked Hasan, his eyes widening. 

Michael looked at the sky. The dark clouds were breaking up; the rain was lessening, and the sun was coming out. He'd never been outside right after a rain shower. At least, not within memory. 

"Later," he said. And then, because the younger boy seemed hesitant, Michael added, "Save some food from supper for me." 

Hasan nodded eagerly. He liked to do small tasks for Michael. It was very odd. 

But it was just as well, Michael thought as he slipped through the rain-drenched park, carefully skirting the gazebo where the young woman was now desperately pleading with the park-keeper to allow her to return home. Outram would emerge soon from his play with the boy, and he would be outraged when he learned that one of his goods was missing. Michael could stand being beaten more easily than Hasan could. For some reason, Michael didn't like the idea of Hasan crying. 

He reached the Parkside district. The rain here was gone, but when he looked back, he could see that it was still raining on Theater Avenue. There were colors in the air, arching over the avenue. They were different colors from when the sun set or rose. Strangely, Hasan seemed to find colors in the air exciting. Perhaps if Michael had seen the laughing river, he wouldn't have understood that either. 

He wasn't sure he understood this new place he had come to. There was no garbage anywhere – neither in the alleys nor in the streets. Gentlemen and ladies that he passed ignored him or whispered about him, which he expected, but they kept their voices low when talking to each other also, which was odd. He was used to the screams and bawdy songs and cat-calls of Theater Avenue. This quietness seemed . . . 

. . . like Hasan, putting ointment on Michael's back, after Outram had used his whip. The quietness was gentle like that. 

He stood for a moment, trying to orient himself. He could still hear the river to the right of him, as well as the occasional whistle of a steamer and the ever-present rumble of trains next to the river. A noise was coming closer. A cab, empty except for the cab-driver, who did not deign to look at Michael, nor at the rubber ball rolling across the street, about to be trampled by the hooves of his horse. 

Beyond the cab, staring white-faced at the ball through the bars of a garden gate, was a boy his own age. 

Michael moved without thinking. If he had stopped to think, he would have realized how foolish he was to move. It was just a ball. If it was punctured, that didn't matter. Nobody had been hurt. But somehow he didn't like the pale expression on the boy's face, so he slipped between the hooves of the horse and retrieved the ball. It was no harder than slipping out from the arms of an outraged patron. 

He looked down at the ball. It was wet with rain-water, but the ball retained the warmth of the boy who had recently held it. It felt pleasant against Michael's skin. 

He was vaguely aware of more vehicles passing behind and in front of him on the street where he stood. But nothing caught his eye until he heard the gate click. He looked up. The boy was standing uncertainly next to the gate. He was dressed in the sort of stiff suit that elite boys wore. From the expression on his face, he obviously desired his ball back. 

It was tempting to deliberately toss the ball under the wheels of a passing automobile. This was an elite boy. He would grow up to be an elite man. He would visit places like Outram's. Perhaps he would even force Hasan to serve him. 

Michael tossed him the ball. He wasn't sure why. The boy looked startled. Michael wondered whether he would complain about having his toy touched by a whore. 

The boy gave a tentative smile. He tossed the ball back. 

It was then that Michael began to suspect that he really hadn't paid sufficient attention when Hasan talked about happiness.


	5. Joy

_The Alliance of the Dozen Landsteads, the year 595, the sixth month. (The year 1960 Barley, Summer Transformation week, by the Old Calendar.)_   
  

The rain fit Carr's melancholy mood. The raindrops drifted down, soft and ceaseless, onto the oyster-shell road that led through the marshland to Narrows School. The road was empty now, in the dawn hours. All of the other students, as well as their school masters, still lay asleep, as far as Carr knew. Having been raised in a House that supervised watermen, Carr had become accustomed to waking at dawn. 

He centered his attention on the path of ground oyster shells, turned grey in the rain. Worms. There were worms crawling over the road, drawn from their dens by the rain. They lent to the generally dismal aspect of the scene. 

Carefully stepping over them – it would be years before Carr understood the implications of his impulse not to destroy helpless creatures – Carr began to walk back toward the school. He ought to be there when the boys of the Second House awoke. He was their Head Prefect, after all, though a young Head: only eleven sun-cycles old, he had started First Form the previous spring. So far he liked school, though he wasn't entirely sure the other boys liked him. 

He paused in his path. The marsh grasses grew high here, overlooked by a few pines. There was a feeling of enclosure, similar to when he wandered the forests near his home on the Western Shore. There he would come across the occasional mansion, belonging to Houses whose land bordered his own House; or else he would run across cottages, little more than shacks, that were owned by the tenants. 

Here there was nothing but marshland. North of him, if he walked far enough, he would come to Hoopersville, where watermen lived and worked; southwest of him, if he walked far enough, he would reach the ferry that led to the lower island where the High Masters had built their castle many centuries ago. But here, in the middle island of the three islands that made up Hoopers Island, he might as well have been the only boy in the New World. 

He lowered his head and began walking again, avoiding the worms. He didn't know what he had expected when he arrived at school. Deference, yes – his high rank had taught him to expect that from everyone he met. But at home – in the mansion run by his Egalitarian parents, who encouraged boldness and frankness from all members of their House – that deference from lower-ranked men and women and children had often been mixed with fellowship, and occasionally with genuine affection. 

Here there was only deference. The other boys, regardless as to whether they belonged to his House in school, acted as though he planned to cane them at any moment. The school masters, while outwardly asserting their temporary authority over him, took care not to call upon him during classes. Only the Head Master spoke to him with affability . . . but the Head Master was too busy to speak with him often. 

He raised his chin and squared his shoulders. No doubt the fault was his own. He was young; he hadn't yet learned how to handle his fellow landsteaders so that they trusted him. This was only the end of his second term in school; no doubt, as time went on, he would acquire friends and would ease the concerns of his school masters. 

He wasn't sure about the servants. He was never sure about the servants. But he would tackle that problem at a later time. 

In the pines and the grasses, the birds were loud with chatter. The mosquitoes buzzed incessantly, occasionally darting in to treat themselves to a breakfast on Carr's body. He had grown well used to that. Narrows School had seemed strange at first, so isolated from mankind, but the landscape was not much different from that of Carr's waterside home. He knew marshland, he knew the waves of the Bay. 

And thanks to his parents' radical beliefs, he knew isolation. Not as much isolation as this, but he was used to spending months on end in their mansion, without any visitors from outside the House. 

Still, it would be nice if he could make friends here. . . . 

It was then that he saw the boy. 

The boy was wearing a brown suit, which meant he wasn't a student at Narrows School. One of the local boys, most likely. He was kneeling on the pavement. For a wild moment, Carr imagined that the boy was kneeling to him. Most of the residents of Hoopers Island were servants, after all. And it was natural for a servant to kneel to him. . . . 

Before he had a chance to catch that thought back and chastise himself – as his Egalitarian parents would certainly have chastised him for thinking such a thing – the boy reached out to pick up something from the road. As he did so, his sleeve rode up, revealing the rank-mark tattooed to his wrist. Red: he was a third-ranked master. Probably a captain's son, then. Carr was disappointed, for reasons he didn't want to analyze. Still, here was a possibility that hadn't occurred to him, for the simple reason that fellow masters were much less common on Hoopers Island than servants. He could make friends with this local boy. After all, the boy wasn't a member of the Second Landstead, and he wasn't a member of Narrows School, so Carr had no power over him whatsoever. Though he couldn't disguise his own rank – first-ranked master – he wouldn't tell the boy what his title was until their friendship was cemented. 

He was being premature. He didn't know whether he'd like the boy. He didn't know whether the boy would like _him_. With a mixture of uncertainty and hope swelling in his chest, he walked forward. 

The boy didn't notice him. He continued to carefully pick up objects from the road. Worms. He was picking up worms. He wasn't catching worms to use them as fishing bait, though; he was placing them in the muddy channel next to the road. By all that was sacred, what was the meaning of this? 

As Carr paused, the boy looked up. He didn't rise to his feet. He remained kneeling, staring open-mouthed at Carr. Carr wondered whether the boy was simple. "Hello," he said to the boy. "What are you doing?" 

It was the wrong greeting. The boy immediately lowered his eyes and blushed. He'd noticed Carr's rank-mark, no doubt, and thought he was about to be chastised by a higher-ranked master. "I'm sorry, sir," the boy said softly. 

Oh, dear. It was at times like this that Carr fully understood why his parents hated their nation's ranking system so much. There was only one thing Carr could do to mend the situation. 

He knelt down on the road. No doubt the Second House's servants would have something to say about the state of his trousers when they cleaned Carr's clothes, though they wouldn't complain in his presence. The privileges of high rank. He stared at the worms. They looked just like ordinary worms to him. Then he said, "You're rescuing the worms?" 

Evidently he had asked the right question, for the boy nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir. They come out of the ground when it rains, so that they won't drown. They're usually hidden in the grass. But here on the road, they could be trampled by the other schoolboys. So I'm helping them off the road." 

_Other_ schoolboys. A boy who would be attending Narrows School, then. Carr looked him over more carefully. The boy appeared to be the same age as himself – perhaps a few months younger, which meant that he would be starting school in the autumn or winter term. He still had the look of a local, though, and there was a faint echo of watermen-servants' speech in his words. No doubt that was because his father was a captain. "Is your father a boat-master here?" he asked. 

The boy dipped his eyes again. "No, sir. Keeper of the Beacons of Barren Island." 

He must have misheard. Barren Island was deserted. Carr had taken a brief visit there on the first day he arrived at Hoopers Island, for Barren Island was the barrier island just west of Hoopers Island. Carr's father, who had captained their skipjack himself, had indulged his only offspring's curiosity by letting Carr take a yawl-boat out to investigate the smaller island, with the assistance of their highest-ranked waterman, Master Rowlett. Carr and Master Rowlett had found empty houses there, some of them with Bay-water lapping at their foundations – the evident reason why the island had been abandoned. Now Carr said, "But no one lives there any more." 

"With respect, sir, the beacons still need to be kept. The boats need to see the beacons, or they'll go aground." 

The boy's voice was polite but firm. Very odd. The boy was still lowering his gaze like a servant, yet a servant wouldn't speak to a master with that degree of firmness. Not unless he was very secure in his position, or unless he belonged to an Egalitarian household. 

Carr was getting cold; the heat of summer was around him, but the water was seeping up his trousers. He was determined, though, to penetrate this mystery. "Has your father been Keeper for long?" 

Again that servant-like dipping of the eyes. "No, sir. Only since he was raised in rank, four tri-years ago." 

Oh. _Oh._ This explained everything. The son of a master, but that master had once been a servant. No doubt the father retained many of his servant mannerisms, in the same way that Rowlett did. And this boy, living isolated on an island with his family . . . why, he would never have learned how to act like a proper master. 

Carr was suddenly, overwhelmingly aware that this boy was headed for trouble at Narrows School. The boys at Narrows were no crueler than boys anywhere else, but like boys everywhere, they were quick to take advantage of weaknesses. Not to know how to behave in one's proper rank was certainly a weakness. Carr – far too Egalitarian for his schoolfellows, far less Egalitarian than his parents would have liked – was all too cognizant of the dangers that this boy faced. 

Carr led a protected life – protected both by his high rank and by his parents' loving patience. But if he had been a third-ranked master about to enter Narrows School . . . 

He had the strong desire to take this boy into his care. He mistook this for the desire of a master to care for a lesser-ranked master. 

"The worms," he said, in order to turn the conversation away from matters of rank. "Won't they die anyway? They'll drown some day, or be eaten, or just die of natural causes. Why take the trouble to rescue them?" 

The boy stared at him, as though not understanding his question. "They need help," he said. 

Carr looked down at the worms. The boy's words were familiar to him; Carr had been born of parents who had made it their life mission to bring freedom to their nation's servants. It had never occurred to him, though, to extend this principle to dumb beasts, much less to worms. 

"Do you eat flesh?" he asked after a moment. 

"Yes, sir," replied the boy, creasing his forehead with puzzlement. "There's good hunting and fishing on Barren Island. And the oyster beds are good here." 

So he had heard from his father, who periodically grumbled about how much better the Third Landstead's oyster grounds were than the Second Landstead's. Carr looked up as a duck glided by in the air. His father – again, with tones of envy – had said that the Third Landstead had some of the best waterfowl-hunting on the Bay, particularly in the autumn, when thick flocks travelled down the Bay, on their way south for the cold months of the year. The Second Landstead, which had drained most of its marshes and turned them into farmland, attracted less waterfowl than the Third Landstead, which was still largely marshland. 

"Birds eat worms, don't they?" He spoke tentatively on the matter. He had seen the occasional robin pulling a worm from the ground, but he wasn't sure what the waterfowl ate. He had never paid that much attention. "If you rescue all the worms, and the worms hide underground, maybe more birds will die. It's the cycle, you see," his voice turning more certain, for the one thing he could be sure of was that this fellow citizen of the Dozen Landsteads shared the religious beliefs that were held by all Landsteaders. "The cycle of death and transformation and rebirth. The worm dies, and it goes into the bird and comes out as a sort of manure, and then the manure helps plants to grow, which are eaten by creatures, and the worm is reborn. Maybe as a creature, if it lived a good life. Maybe as a plant, if it lived such a poor life that it was lowered in rank. And maybe, if it led a really good life, it is raised in rank and reborn as a human. Maybe you were a worm, once." This was a new and thrilling idea. Meeting the boy was worth it, just for that idea alone: that all the plants and animals around him were linked to the humanity that he'd been trained since birth to care for. 

Not that this would stop him from eating flesh. But now that he realized that the animal he ate might become a human being one day, he would have greater reverence toward the act of eating. 

From the look on the boy's face, it was clear that he shared that sentiment. "Of course," the boy said softly. "You're right, sir. You're so very right. Thank you for taking the trouble to instruct me." 

Again came that impulse to care for the boy, as a liege-master cares for his liegeman. That was odd, for the words that the boy spoke were the words of a servant thanking his master. 

Regardless of Carr's confusion over rank matters, clearly someone needed to take the boy in hand. The boy was a Third Landsteader, which in practice might mean that he was outside Carr's reach. But the boy was too young to have pledged himself elsewhere. If he was willing to change his allegiance to another landstead, and if he desired a liege-master . . . 

There was a short, wordless shout, sharp in tone. The boy bounded to his feet, looking around with an expression of alarm. Carr rose more slowly. He did not even have to look in order to know what that peremptory tone meant. 

He did eventually glance over his shoulder. The boy's liege-master – or rather, liege-master-to-be, for the boy whom Carr had been speaking to was barely into his apprentice years – was even younger than the boy and was dressed in the same brown suit. Another of the locals, perhaps. Carr searched in his mind to think who was higher-ranked than the Keeper of the Beacons of Barren Island, for this new arrival was no doubt the son of the Keeper's supervisor. After a second, though, Carr gave up trying to remember. The boy – the original boy, to whom he'd pinned his hopes of providing companionship and affectionate leadership – was too obviously eager to rejoin the liege-master-to-be who already had claimed him. "May I go, sir?" the boy asked. 

"Yes, of course," Carr replied. "I'll see you in school next term." 

The boy gave a little bob of his head – that was better than a full bow, so perhaps the liege-master-to-be had spoken a word or two to him about how to be a proper master. It was no longer Carr's concern, in any case. He turned back to stare at the road leading to Narrows School. 

It was still raining; the road was still empty. Yet no, it wasn't empty at all. The boy had shown him that. It was filled all around with life: insects and birds and mammals and reptiles and amphibians and even a few crustaceans crawling in the channel. Carr watched them for a minute, filled with wonder at this wider world he had just been introduced to. 

Then something made him look back. The boy he had been speaking to had nearly travelled around the curve of the road that was hidden by the tall marsh grass, but he was looking over his shoulder. Ignoring his future liege-master, who had a tight grip on his arm, the boy smiled at Carr. He drew a circle in the air. 

The cycle. The cycle of death, transformation, and rebirth. Carr smiled and drew a circle back. 

The boy disappeared from view. Carr started down the road toward Narrows School, whistling in the air. Best not to talk to the boy again; Carr wasn't the sort to steal other fellows' liegemen. Best not to even make enquiries to determine the boy's name. Narrows was a large enough school that they'd be unlikely to see each other except in passing. 

But what the boy had taught him today would stay with him forever. Thank goodness it was raining; thank goodness he had met the boy; thank goodness he hadn't spoiled their meeting by trying to steal what wasn't his. 

He raised his face in thanksgiving and felt his heart fill with joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Rain_**   
> **HISTORICAL NOTE**
> 
> In the _Turn-of-the-Century Toughs_ universe, three years pass for every one year in our own world, which is why, in _Rain_ , the turn-of-the-century period lasts for so long. The Dozen Landsteads presents a special case; its culture was frozen in the 1910s for decades, which is why the last story in _Rain_ takes place so much later than the earlier stories.
> 
> Readers familiar with the _Eternal Dungeon_ series will notice that young Layle is referred to by a name that he did not actually adopt until later in life. This was done purely to prevent confusion by readers who haven't read that portion of the series.
> 
> All of the settings in _Rain_ are based on real places in the Mid-Atlantic region, including Hoopers Island. The story entitled "Hope" is set on Thomas Viaduct, a bridge between Howard County and Baltimore City (locally pronounced "Balmer") in the State of Maryland. The bridge, which still exists, is historically famous for the reasons described in this tale. The nearby hotel was equally famous, before its demolition in 1950.
> 
> As for the Royal Blue Line, it indeed travelled this route, though a few years later than I have it travelling in this story. The Royal Blue Line was one of America's luxury train lines, and it advertised itself in the manner this story describes. The floor-plan of the parlor car that appears within the story was taken from an [1892 article](http://www.catskillarchive.com/rrextra/RBXPRS.Html) about the train.
> 
> Starke's gun is the Colt Single-Action Army Revolver (1873), also known as the Colt 45 or Peacemaker, though I've allowed him to have smokeless powder well before the Peacemaker was adapted for such powder. For safety reasons, only five rounds were usually loaded to the six-chamber revolver.
> 
>  
> 
> **CREDITS**
> 
> _Beta reader:_ [Yingtai](http://abjectsub.com/) (NSFW link).
> 
> This text, or a variation on it, was originally published at [duskpeterson.com](http://duskpeterson.com) as part of the series Master/Other. Copyright © 2014, 2015 Dusk Peterson. Some rights reserved. The text is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0) (creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0). You may freely print, post, e-mail, share, or otherwise distribute the text for noncommercial purposes, provided that you include this paragraph. The [author's policies on fan works](http://duskpeterson.com/copyright.htm) are available online (duskpeterson.com/copyright.htm).


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